


Love Potion Number 9

by Petalene



Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Bingo (Good Omens), M/M, kink meme fill, love potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 03:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petalene/pseuds/Petalene
Summary: Gabriel knows Aziraphale has been in love with Crowley since forever. Desperate to get revenge on the angel who escaped punishment after the failed apocalypse, Gabriel decides that the best way to make Aziraphale miserable is to use a love potion and force Crowley to fall in love temporarily so the archangel can sit back and enjoy the fallout when it wears off. Except, nothing changes and the demon isn't acting any different. If at first you don't succeed, conspire with the Prince of Hell and use a stronger potion.In which Gabriel and Beelzebub scheme, Anathema meddles, Crowley and Aziraphale are oblivious, the bookshop is becoming a sorted pickup joint, and no one knows when to give up.Crack fill for a humorous prompt on the Good Omens Kink Meme
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Husbands Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1482767
Comments: 40
Kudos: 372





	Love Potion Number 9

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Good Omens Kink Meme - https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1111400#cmt1111400 
> 
> Bingo square - Magic

Something has got to give. He may be the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, but he still has his limits. No one has dared to confront Aziraphale and the longer Heaven goes without a response, the angrier Gabriel gets. The memory of Aziraphale’s smug smile as he stood in Hellfire like it was nothing makes Gabriel want to put his fist through a wall. Or through Aziraphale’s face, he’s good with either.

Heaven may not have succeeded in destroying the annoying angel, but there is always another solution. They can make Aziraphale miserable enough to reject Heaven or maybe to even fall from grace.

Gabriel sits in the chair opposite Beelzebub and crosses his arms, scowling. “I don’t know why you want to keep having these meetings,” Gabriel says, glancing around Devil’s Food and Angel Cakes Cafe. “Nothing has changed with The Angel That Wouldn’t Die since we last spoke.”

“Same down below with the Hell Spawn,” Beelzebub says. Ze picks up zir cup and takes a sip of tea before spitting it out. “Blegh. This is disgusting. I don’t know how humans can stomach it.”

Gabriel considers pointing out that it probably tastes better than the swill they have in Hell, but he doesn’t see any benefit. “There has to be a way to make Aziraphale pay for his crimes. I don’t understand how he survived the Hellfire without even batting an eye.”

“It’s the same with Crowley. I want to feed him to the Hell hounds, but after he took a bath in holy water, I don’t know of the hounds would be effective.”

“Not sure if causing true pain is an option,” Gabriel says, meaning it as a joke. As soon as the words leave his lips, an idea begins to form. They may be immune to the obvious answers, but that doesn’t rule out emotional torture.

What would make Aziraphale miserable? Take away his food? It would annoy him, but it wouldn’t induce the soul-crushing devastation Gabriel wants to inflict. There must be something Aziraphale can’t exist without. And the answer appears like the voice of God from the Heavens above. 

“We use a love potion,” Gabriel says. “They’ve been fraternizing for millennia. We make them fall in love and they consummate their relationship. Then BOOM! It wears off and they’re devastated. For eternity.” 

It’s easy. That stupid angel is already in love with the demon, so one dose in Crowley’s food or drink and it’s a done deal. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Beelzebub says firmly.

It may be ridiculous, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work. And what would it hurt if Gabriel is wrong? Nothing. He just has to trick the demon into drinking a love potion and since the Hell Spawn will drink anything alcoholic, it should be simple.

Gabriel rises from his seat. “I have to go. I’d say have a good day, but you’d probably rather have a bad one.” He smiles, showing all of his teeth and leaves.

Two days later, Gabriel is the proud owner of a glass vial filled with the strongest love potion the Hoodoo practitioner could brew. The woman told Gabriel to pray over it for three nights in a row, Matthew 21:22 - And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. 

Then add no more than five drops a day in food or drink consumed by the person you are casting the spell on. If there are no signs of love within two weeks, up it to ten drops a day. No declaration of love within thirty-one days? It’s not meant to be, and the potion was unsuccessful. 

Gabriel boosts the power with an angelic miracle and dumps a quarter of the vial in a bottle of wine before sealing it and sneaking it into Crowley’s flat.

§ § §

Crowley has no idea what’s wrong with this girl.

The shop clerk at the toy store is young and cute in the teenaged-kid sort of way that puppies are cute. She leans her elbows on the counter, cups her chin in her hands and sighs dreamily at Crowley. “I love you.”

He frowns. It goes against every instinct he has, but he wants to pay for Adam and Warlock’s birthday presents and leave without any drama. “I...love...you...too?” he says through gritted teeth. 

Crowley isn’t sure how Adam is managing to get Warlock on a plane to visit. Once he realized how much Crowley and Aziraphale miss the not-Antichrist, reality bent. They got a call that the kid was on his way to celebrate his twelfth birthday and the anniversary of Apocalypse Nope with the two of them and Adam. 

“What are you doing tonight?” she asks.

“Wrapping presents. My godson and the antichrist were born on the same day.” Why is he telling her this?

“I love kids. I want to have lots and lots.”

“Bully for you.” He holds out more than enough money to pay for the two games. “I can’t stand the little buggers.” Total lie, he misses seeing Warlock every day.

“Oh, me, too. No kids for me,” she says quickly. 

Crowley is taken aback by her sudden mood swing. Whatever. 

She smiles brightly. “Do you like movies? We should go on a date.”

And...that’s the limit. He appears old enough to be her dad and now it’s creepy and weird. And you know it’s bad when a demon thinks things are creepy and weird. Crowley places the money on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says and hurries away. 

“Can I get your number?” she calls after him.

“No,” he says loudly without turning around. 

It’s not just the shop girl. The man at the bakery uses creative innuendo, offering to blow Crowley in the kitchen. Which is unsanitary and wrong. Who has sex where food is prepared for the unsuspecting public? Well, while Crowley was officially on Hell’s payroll, he would have thought it was pretty funny. But when he’s placing an order for birthday cakes for twelve-year-olds, it’s gross. 

At the stationery store, both employees and all three of the customers proposition him. Two of them are at least seventy and the other woman has a brand new infant and dark circles under her eyes. Crowley’s effort changes on a whim and he’s had a vagina often enough to imagine that you don’t want anyone or anything near it when you just squeezed out a baby. 

He’s going to see Aziraphale so they can have a good laugh about all this nonsense. 

The bookstore is closed when Crowley arrives. Since Aziraphale doesn’t want to part with any of his books, this isn’t a surprise. What’s odd are the curtains closed across every window. Since when did Aziraphale have curtains? And why would they be closed? A tickle of fear crawls up Crowley’s spine. If something has happened to his angel, Crowley is going to find the responsible being even if he has to travel through all seven circles of Hell and climb every last mountain in Heaven.

Without breaking his stride, Crowley snaps and the double doors swing open for him. He stalks inside and snaps the doors closed behind him. “Angel?”

A strangled whimper from behind the counter is the only reply.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley runs over. 

His angel is on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, rocking back and forth. 

“Who hurt you?” Crowley asks gently.

“No one.” 

Crowley kneels next to Aziraphale, afraid to touch him. “What happened?”

“Students….” 

The way he trails off is disconcerting. “Students did what?”

“They told me that they loved me. I thought it was because I was letting them research, but they wanted to have a...an orgy, I guess. I didn’t like it.”

“And then?”

“I used several miracles to convince them to leave. Nobody touched me. No one hurt me. I’m fine, I just...I didn’t like it.”

When Crowley gets hit on, it’s annoying, but he can handle it. With his poor angel, it’s different. “Something similar happened to me today. We need help.”

“Adam?” Aziraphale asks. 

“You want to discuss getting propositioned for group sex with a twelve-year-old?”

“Not really.”

“Me either. Let’s go see Anathema.”

§ § §

“I think someone hexed or cursed us,” Crowley says when Anathema answers the knock at her door. 

She wants to say something sarcastic about calling before they come over, but Aziraphale looks much too miserable for teasing. 

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Aziraphale says. “Why would someone curse us?”

Crowley glares at the angel over the top of his glasses. “I don’t know. It’s not like we stopped the apocalypse and thwarted Heaven and Hell’s plans. Or made the higher-ups and the lower-downs look ridiculous when we laughed at permanent discorperation. Oh...wait. We did.”

Aziraphale pouts and crosses his arms. “We agreed it was the right decision.”

“It was, but it still has consequences.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s happening over tea,” Anathema says diplomatically, holding the door open. The two argue like an old married couple and it’s best to head it off at the start or it could go on for hours.

“Nothing’s too out of the ordinary,” Aziraphale says. 

Anathema leads them to the kitchen and puts the kettle on before sitting down.

Crowley hisses. “Ssso it’s normal for teenage uni ssstudents to proposition you for an orgy?”

“Well, no.” Aziraphale clasps his hands together. 

“And it’s normal for five of them to offer you a lifetime of fun and sex when you look old enough to be their dad or maybe even their grandfather?”

“I do *not* look old enough to be the grandfather of a teenager!”

Anathema drums her fingers on the table. “Did you tell them you already met your soulmate?”

“Soulmate?” Aziraphale sounds completely bewildered. “That’s not a real thing, dear.”

“I don’t have a soul,” Crowley says, a wicked smirk pulling up at the corners of his mouth. “I made a deal with the Devil to get Aziraphale out of trouble in Ancient Greece, eleventh century BC after he had a miracle go wrong. They wanted to make him a sex slave.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Aziraphale says. “And of course you have a soul.”

“Not anymore.”

“Here we go again,” Anathema mutters. If any two beings in the entire history of time are soulmates, it’s these two. “Can’t you tell people that anyway? It might make them back off.”

Aziraphale cocks his head, a confused frown crossing his face. “You know I don’t like to lie.”

Anathema silently curses. Agnes give her strength. It’s invasive and rude, but she’s annoyed enough to do it anyway. 

The first time Anathema looked at Aziraphale and Crowley’s auras was after Crowley hit her with the Bentley, despite his continued insistence that she had hit him. She had wanted to suss out the intentions of two strange men offering to help her out on a deserted road in the middle of the night and miles from town. The bright white and gray iridescent sparkles radiating out meant that angels were watching over them. 

Of course, she later realized that the white sparkles were created by Aziraphale and the gray ones were Crowley’s, the intertwining of the two because they were watching over each other. What was odd was the red passionate tendrils reaching for each other and hitting what appeared to be an invisible wall between them, indicating unrequited love. She could see mischief in Crowley’s aura but no malice directed at her, so she accepted the lift.

Opening her Othersight reveals that the incandescence of their auras is brighter than before and the tendrils are still hitting the invisible wall. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful.

Streaks of oily blackness twist through the sparkling light. Definitely a curse and it’s on both of them. Except, it’s not touching the light of their auras. Which means the curse is there but not having an effect on either of them. It...doesn’t make any sense. 

“Let me see if I understand,” Anathema says. “Everyone you encounter is affected.”

“Yesss,” Crowley hisses. 

“Except for each other.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Crowley is the only one besides you who hasn’t propositioned me for kinky sex today.”

“And you?” Anathema asks Crowley. 

His lips press together into a thin line and he nods. 

If her Othersight wasn’t still open, Anathema would have missed the bright green flare of jealousy in Crowley’s aura and the way Crowley’s desire pools against the invisible barrier. 

It all clicks into place. 

They still haven’t told each other. Aziraphale and Crowley are the two most oblivious idiots in the history of creation, having managed to coexist for six thousand years without admitting how they feel.

“You’re cursed. But I can fix it,” she says. 

What she means is - I can remove the curse and hit you with a love potion twice as powerful until you both pull your heads out of your asses. It’s not technically lying, she rationalizes. It’ll fix the problem.

Crowley’s curse looks a little more like Hoodoo and Aziraphale’s seems like witchcraft, suggesting two different spells that were custom-tailored. Whatever is going on, the person casting the magic and the person requesting the spells, if they aren’t the same person, knows their stuff.

“You two sit here and drink your tea,” Anathema says, closing her Othersight. “I’m going to prepare a counter curse.”

Anathema goes into her workroom and sets out ingredients. Getting rid of the curse is easy. Although, Aziraphale and Crowley don’t need to know that. It’s not the best time of the month for banishing curses and hexes, but the new moon is the perfect time for a love spell. 

Once her supplies are assembled, she brings them to the kitchen. Anathema lights three candles and some loose incense on a charcoal disk in a burner. She sets a small bottle of oil on the counter out of the way. “Ready?”

They both nod. 

She begins a chant and uses a ceremonial knife to cut off the curses. Since she doesn’t know who cast it, she doesn’t want to reflect it back on them, but this should solve the problem.

When it’s finished, Anathema says, “Now, I want you to hold hands.” It gives her a thrilling sense of delight to watch the two of them overcome their hesitation and hold hands. 

“How does this help?” Crowley asks.

“Shush. Don’t interrupt.” Anathema dips her finger in the Come To Me Oil and draws a sigil on each of their foreheads. Reaching out with her intention, she visualizes the spell working and sees the two of them coming together as romantic partners. “The curse is gone. Thank you.”

“That’s it?” Aziraphale asks.

“What were you expecting? Inverse pentagrams, animal sacrifices, something along those lines?” Crowley asks. “She’s a witch and occultist, not a Satanist.”

“Regardless of what you were expecting, this took care of it.” Anathema sets a muslin bag of tea on the table. “Brew this tea tonight at 9:10 and drink it at 9:20 when the moon is at its newest. It’ll strengthen the spell. And, yes, you both need to drink it.

They appear skeptical, but resigned. “Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “We appreciate the assistance.”

“Let me know if anything changes.”

§ § §

Gabriel is livid. The potion isn’t working on The Stupidest Angel and Beelzebub called another meeting at the cafe. Why does ze insist they meet in here when Gabriel doesn’t eat and Beelzebub doesn’t like the food they serve? 

“I’ve been trying to come up with something suitably devastating for those who escaped punishment.” Beelzebub toys with the cup in front of zir. 

“And what have you got?” Gabriel asks. Demons are better at down and dirty malicious acts than angels. In Heaven, it’s all about righteous smiting. Which isn’t an option when dealing with an angel immune to hellfire.

“Mostly odds and ends. It’s not easy taking down a demon who can’t be destroyed. What’s Heaven’s take on this?”

Beelzebub probably assumes that Gabriel has to tell the truth, he’s an archangel after all. He can lie, but it’s better if he hedges his answer instead. “God has been curiously silent on the subject.”

“Same for Lord Satan. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed about the cock-up in Tadfield or simply washed his claws of the situation.”

Why is the Prince of Hell telling him this? And without the promise of something in return. Gabriel squares his shoulders, not sure if he can trust what he’s hearing. 

“I have a question, though,” Beelzebub says.

This is more like it, providing questionably accurate information as bait for what’s truly desired. 

“Do you think it’s possible for love to grow between an angel and a demon?”

“Yes,” Gabriel says, thinking of Aziraphale. “But extremely improbable. Angels and demons don’t share common interests and desires so why would they?” 

“I thought about what you said last time, about the devastation of unrequited love. And I acquired a love spell. It didn’t have any affect despite a successful administration,” Beelzebub says. “Any idea why?”

Gabriel’s eyes widen. “I used a love potion, too. They must have canceled each other out. We could go in on this together.”

Beelzebub glares. “Just this once. We get a new potion, split it in half, and both deliver a dose so there’s no chance of a screw up this time.”

“Deal.”

§ § §

“I’m so glad you’re open, Aziraphale. I desperately need to see you,” Mrs. Jenkins - oh, please call me Felicity, dear - says.

Crowley glances down from where he’s sprawled across the top row of books next to the heating vent, his second favorite napping spot when he’s a snake. His favorite will always be Aziraphale’s lap.

She’s wearing too much jewelry, too much perfume, and not enough clothes. That dress is way too short for a woman her age.

Setting aside his Georgette Heyer book, Aziraphale smiles. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Jenkins. What can I help you with?”

“Please call me, Felicity, dear. We’ve practically known each other forever.”

Crowley snorts. She thinks she’s known Aziraphale forever? Ha! He met Aziraphale on day six of creation. Besides, Aziraphale doesn’t like fake, pushy people.

“My husband died almost three years ago. It’s finally time for me to move on.”

Perfect, Crowley thinks. Move on to outer Mongolia and never darken this doorway again.

“I treasure every moment we’ve spent together,” she continues.

“I like you as well,” Aziraphale says.

Only because she doesn’t buy any books. She flirts and Aziraphale obliviously never realizes that she wants to ride that ride more than she wants to discuss literature.

“I believe in getting what I want. And I want you. Go with me to Paris for dinner tomorrow night. I know this darling little crepe place and I have some things I would like to discuss with you privately.”

That does it. Crowley slithers down the shelf, across the floor, and climbs Aziraphale’s leg.

Mrs. Jenkins shrieks, taking a few steps back. “What is that?!”

“You know my friend Crowley?”

“That washed out rocker with a tattoo on his face who never takes his sunglasses off?”

“That’s Crowley. This is his pet snake, Mr. Wiggles.”

Mr. Wiggles? Oh, Hell no. Crowley opens wide, showing his razor sharp fangs and hisses at Aziraphale. 

“Bad snake.” Aziraphale taps him on the head with a small frown.

It’s worth the mild reprimand to see the disbelief on Mrs. Jenkins face. Crowley rubs his cheek along Aziraphale’s jaw.

“He’s going to bite you.”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Crowley flicks out his forked tongue and brushes the tips along warm skin. Mmm. Tasty.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh that sounds a little more turned on than exasperated, but Crowley doesn’t care if Mrs. Jenkins thinks Aziraphale has a thing for snakes.

“Honestly,” Aziraphale says. “If you don’t knock it off, I’ll turn you into a belt.”

I’ll turn *you* into a belt.

Crowley bumps his nose against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“So demanding,” Aziraphale mutters, stroking his fingers along Crowley’s scales.

It’s blissful to slide around Aziraphale’s neck a few times, touching as much skin as possible and showing Mrs. Jenkins who the angel belongs to. If she gets too close, Crowley will unhinge his jaw and swallow her whole. She’ll make a miserable meal, but if it puts a permanent end to her popping round the shop as often as she can catch it open, it will be worth the indigestion.

Aziraphale slides two fingers under Crowley’s chin and gently lifts until they are eye to eye. “Please go in the back room, love. I need a minute.”

“You can’t expect a snake to follow instructions.”

“He’s very well trained. Former circus snake,” Aziraphale says with an unbelievably fake smile. “And if he ever wants to take naps here again, he’ll be a good snake and give me a minute.”

Ugh. Aziraphale might have won this battle, but the war isn’t over. Crowley snorts at Aziraphale and climbs down, the snake equivalent of huffing off.

Stupid sodding wankers who are friends with stupid sodding tarts. Crowley is never taking a nap here again, so it doesn’t matter if he does as requested or not.

He transforms into his human shape, pulls out his mobile, and sends a text.

To Anathema - On our way to see you.

§ § §

Aziraphale and Crowley arrive at Jasmine Cottage less than an hour after the text.

“Hello, gentlemen. Everything okay?” she asks. They must have gotten together and are sharing the joyous news in person.

Crowley says, “No, we’re still cursed.”

“I think we’re cursed again, dear,” Aziraphale says. “Anathema knows her stuff. If she says she took the curse off, she took the curse off.”

“I removed it,” Anathema insists. “What happened?”

Crowley grimaces while Aziraphale blushes, clutching a book to his chest.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” Crowley says through gritted teeth, “came to the shop and propositioned Aziraphale.”

“She offered to take me to Paris for crepes. It was off-putting.”

“Oh. That’s weird,” Anathema says. “Was she attracted to you as well, Crowley?”

“Not likely. She was trying to save Aziraphale from my rock-and-roll ways.”

Anathema does a quick check with her Othersight. Yep, the oily black tentacles are back, larger than last time with a sickly greenish tinge to them, but it’s still not penetrating their auras. This is some powerful magic. “Did anything else happen?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Crowley asks. “I’m going to turn back into a snake and bite her. I don’t know if I’m poisonous, but I bet if I'm not, I can still take a large enough chunk out of her throat to make it fatal.”

“Please don’t do anything rash.”

“Getting rid of pests isn’t rash, it’s practical.”

“Got it,” Anathema says loudly. “Did anyone hit on you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Anathema isn’t sure if she should laugh at how oblivious they are or be annoyed about the determination of the spell caster. “Give me a minute. In the meantime, have some tea.”

It’s a double dose of what she gave them last time. Anathema is going to remove the curse and get them together if it’s the last thing she does. 

Ten minutes later, Anathema uses the ceremonial knife to cut the curse again. She double and then triple checks that every last speck is gone. Still, it’s best to be certain.

“Next part. Strip down and go outside. You both need a sunbath to cleanse your auras.”

“We...what?” Aziraphale asks.

“Take off your clothes and go lay in the sun. Ten or twenty minutes on each side.”

They exchange a look and Crowley laughs nervously.

“After you,” Crowley says, gesturing to the back door.

Aziraphale glances sadly at his book. “It’s too bright outside to read.”

“I’ll read it to you.”

“But you don’t like Georgette Heyer.”

“Doesn’t matter. If we can get the curse permanently off of you, I’ll read Oscar Wilde without complaint.”

Anathema smiles to herself, wondering if either of them caught that Crowley is more concerned about Aziraphale than he is about himself.

After assembling two mojo bags for protection, Anathema peeks out the window. Crowley is on his back reading out loud with the book propped up on his stomach, blocking her view of his lower body. Aziraphale has one knee raised, covering his groin. It’s innocently sweet, despite both of them being naked, even if she can’t discretely satisfy her curiosity about how human either of their bodies are. 

“Time to turn over,” she says.

“Thanks,” Crowley says. “Don’t worry, angel. I’ll keep reading.”

Fifteen minutes later, Anathema checks on them again. Aziraphale is on his stomach, propped up on his elbows with Crowley’s sunglasses covering his eyes and his feet in the air. He’s reading out loud despite Crowley’s soft snores. When Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, Crowley lets out a sigh and resumes his snoring. It’s adorable and not that she’s looking, but damn, they both have nice asses.

“Hey,” she calls out softly. “I don’t want either of you to get sunburned.”

Aziraphale glances up. “Not to worry. I used a miracle. But we should get going. And we’ll see you next week at the birthday party.”

“Take these bags with you and keep one in your pocket. Between that and the sunbath, you’ll be protected.” Anathema gives them some privacy to get up and get dressed.

§ § §

Gabriel arrives early and orders two coffees with alcohol. He pours half of the remaining potion in Beelzebub’s mug. There’s only one way to tell if it works on demons. And that’s giving some to a demon.

When Beelzebub sits down across from Gabriel, ze has two plates with some sort of bread looking thing covered in a light brown sauce. A dessert, presumably, but what he doesn’t know about food could fill the Louvre several times over.

“I thought you didn’t like eating,” Gabriel says.

Beelzebub laughs, sliding one plate over to him. “When in Rome.”

“This is London.”

“It’s an expression. Your lot really needs to spend a little time here on Earth. You’re so far out of touch with the way things work.”

Gabriel likes being out of touch with Earth. If he gets his way, he’ll never have to go landside again after he deals with Aziraphale.

“Try some,” Beelzebub says, nudging the plate a little closer. “Even I like it.”

“Only if you have some coffee. This has alcohol in it.” Gabriel takes a small bite of cake. He almost gags on the sticky sweetness, but he forces himself to swallow.

“The potion isn’t working,” Beelzebub says with a scowl. Ze takes a tentative sip of coffee followed by a larger swallow. “This is tolerable with alcohol.”

Gabriel drinks some coffee, more for something to do with his hands so he won’t fidget and give the game away.

“I got my potion passed along. They should be going at it like rabbits on ecstasy laced Viagra.”

“It sucks that it’s not working.” Gabriel picks up his fork and takes another bite. It’s still unpleasant, but the flavor is almost growing on him. It’s no longer so cloying that he wants to spit it out.

“I dosed a bottle and watched it get drunk,” Gabriel says.

“Me, too. Not to worry. I’ll try again. Hope springs eternal and all that.” Beelzebub takes another bite of cake followed by more coffee.

Apparently, the love potion doesn’t work on non-humans. What a waste. but no matter. Gabriel can choke down a little more cake and coffee and give it a few extra minutes just to be certain. He takes another bite of cake. It’s almost good this time, the sweetness balanced by the bitterness of the coffee and the kick of alcohol.

Nothing happens.

Nothing weird at all.

It’s not weird how attractive Beelzebub is. That’s perfectly normal. It’s normal how erotic Beez’s tongue is when it licks across zir lips. And it’s normal when Beez’s eyes dilate and ze asks, “You want to get out of here?”

§ § §

“Hey, Crowley,” Dominic says.

Damn it to Hell. Crowley knows better than to fall asleep on the couch in the bookshop on Thursdays. They get overrun with scrawny twinks and cougars on the prowl. 

Crowley isn’t sure how twinks like Dominic aren’t constantly sick when they wear sleeveless shirts because of the sudden rain so the fabric will stick to their chest. 

“The Silver Stallion is throwing a Queen Party tonight and I’ve got an extra ticket. Wanna come? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“No, thanks.” If Crowley closes his eyes, he can fall back asleep.

“But it’s drag queens and they’re playing Queen all night. It’s going to be epic.”

More epic than seeing Queen in concert with David Bowie? Doubtful. Very doubtful. “Have fun.”

“I will, but it would be more fun with you. I like older guys.”

So does Crowley. “That’s the worst pick up line ever.”

“No, the worst pickup line ever is, did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

Aziraphale lets out a shocked gasp.

“Yes, you idiot,” Crowley says, his voice cold as ice. “Of course it hurt when I fell from Heaven. I landed in a pool of boiling sulphur.”

The kid frowns. “You’re supposed to say something silly, like, no, but I scraped my knees when I crawled out of hell.”

“I didn’t crawl out of Hell! I rose through the ranks and ascended triumphantly.” Crowley isn’t sure if he should be more insulted about the bad pickup line or the implication that he had to crawl out of Hell.

Aziraphale becomes righteous fury and grabs the kid by the ear, dragging him towards the door. “You will leave this shop and never come back. If you see Crowley out and about, you will not speak to him and you will go one kilometer in the opposite direction as long as it is safe to do so. Do you understand?”

“No.” Dominic struggles, clawing at Aziraphale’s hand. The angel doesn’t flinch, he simply continues pulling him towards the door like he ejects customers in this manor all the time. 

“DO NOT COME BACK HERE EVER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Aziraphale pushes so much force into the command that Crowley can sense the raw power from across the room.

Dominic meekly mumbles, “Yes,” and bangs into Mrs. Jenkins on his way out.

“Not now, Mrs. Jenkins. We’re leaving for our godson’s birthday party,” Aziraphale says. 

Why are they leaving today? Crowley asks, “Isn’t the party on Saturday?”

“We’re going now!”

“Yes, angel.”

§ § §

“You’re two days early for the party,” Anathema says. But she was about to call them, so this works out perfectly.  
“Aziraphale is still getting hit on,” Crowley says by way of greeting.

“So are you,” Aziraphale says, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I’m getting hit on by scrawny twinks, not vicious widows.”

“He asked if it hurt when you fell from heaven.”

“That was sadly one of his better pick up lines, if he wasn't using it on a demon.”

Don’t you ever stop arguing? Anathema wants to scream. “How did you get cursed again?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve turned Mrs. Jenkins down several times.”

“Ssseveral!”

“Most of those were ages ago before this curse business started.”

Shifting to Othersight reveals no trace of a curse. Not even a hint or a shadow. “There’s no curse.”

“But Mrs. Jenkinssss,” Crowley hisses.

“Maybe she feels affection for Aziraphale?”

“She better not if she knowsss what’sss good for her.”

Warlock wanders in the kitchen with Adam and Newton.

“Surprise!” Anathema says. “Guess who got here early?”

It’s adorable how Aziraphale and Crowley yell “Warlock!” in unison, squish him in a hug, and cover him in kisses. “We missed you.”

“What’s going on?” Warlock asks when he’s finally allowed to come up for air. “You both seem a little tense.”

“It’s nothing, darling boy,” Crowley says, his accent sliding towards Scottish and Anathema wonders if that’s what Nanny Ashtoreth sounded like.

“I think we’re cursed. People keep asking us out on dates,” Aziraphale says.

Warlock gives them a look, the kind of look only a teenager, or an almost teenager, can produce when confronted with what they assume is the supreme stupidity of adults. “Did you tell them that you’re married?”

Instead of answering that he doesn’t like to lie, which is what Anathema assumes, Aziraphale says, “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Wait a minute,” Anathema says. “You got married?”

“We had to,” Crowley says smugly. “Mrs. Dowling caught Nanny Ashtoreth behind the garden shed with her skirts hiked up and Brother Francis had his hand so far up my thigh-”

“Little pictures have big ears!” Aziraphale yells.

With a roll of his eyes, Crowley says, “Little pictures have the internet. Fine, whatever. Mrs. Dowling caught us in a compromising position, that hadn’t gotten properly compromising yet, and she insisted we get married or get sacked. So we had a garden wedding. Aziraphale wore a cream-colored suit and I wore a cream dress with a black lace overlay. It was epicly gothic and Mrs. Dowling wasn’t amused.”

“I was the flower person and the ring bearer,” Warlock says. 

“You made a lifetime commitment so you wouldn’t get fired?” Newton asks.

“No. We’ve gotten married dozens of times, mostly to keep our cover. But the first time was by Adam and Eve’s grandson in three thousand BC on the spring equinox,” Crowley says.

“Thirty oh two BC by their great-grandson,” Aziraphale says. “And you should remember. You were the one who insisted we needed to stop living in sin after Adam and Eve died because we could finally get a human to perform the ceremony who wouldn’t recognize us.”

“Are you taking the piss out of me for not knowing an exact date five thousand years ago before calendars were invented?”

“It was important!” 

“More important than having Jesus at our thirteenth wedding?”

“No he wasn’t,” Aziraphale scoffs.

“That water into wine thing when we got married in Cana. I know we both got drunk off our asses, but honestly. I thought a principality would recognize a divine presence anyway.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I thought that was you doing miracles.”

“Please, I was so sozzled that if I tried to transform more wine, I could have ended up summoning an elephant or discorperating myself. Or both. Or turned myself into a discorporated elephant. Best not to risk it.”

“When did you two get together?” Anathema asks.

“The garden of Eden,” Crowley says. “The only sin back then was eating the apple and it took me a while to convince Eve to give it a go. She and Adam were shagging all the time before I managed to tempt her and me and the angel decided to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Little pictures,” Aziraphale says sternly.

Crowley lets out an exasperated sigh. “We first expressed our physical love for each other in a deep and meaningful manner in the garden of Eden six thousand years ago, give or take, before it was considered a sin.” 

“You don’t fight *like* an old married couple, you fight because you *are* an old married couple,” Anathema says, mostly to herself. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We’ve been hiding our relationship from Heaven and Hell since about two weeks after the earth was created. It’s an ingrained habit, especially in public and around people.”

They put up the wall between them in public and presumably let it down in private. Oops. Anathema frowns, trying to remember the specifics of Genesis. “Weren’t Adam and Eve created on the sixth day?”

“Yes,” Crowley says. “Then it took three or four days for them to figure out physical love and a few more days for the angel to get me on board. So, yeah, two weeks, give or take.”

“What was that about a curse?” Adam asks, his eyes flashing red for a moment.

Might as well come clean, at least a little, Anathema decides. “I think someone is trying to make these two idiots fall in love because the spell caster doesn’t know that these two idiots are already in love.”

“Oh,” Adam says. “Is that all?” His eyes slowly turn red, brightening until it hurts to look at them and then with a blink, they’re back to their normal color.

“What did you do?” Anathema asks. Letting a twelve-year-old fix adult problems is disconcerting, even if he is the all powerful antichrist.

“Not exactly sure,” Adam says. “I don’t know who cast the spell, but I think they’re distracted.”

§ § §

Gabriel isn’t sure how much time has passed when he opens his eyes. Was he asleep? And why is there a foul taste in his mouth? He doesn’t sully his celestial body by putting food in it. With a groan, he rolls on his side pulling something off his head. A black feather.

Beelzebub sprawls smiling on the bed beside him with a sheet covering zir lower half.

It comes back to Gabriel in a series of disconnected images. Beelzebub suggesting they leave the cafe. Arriving at a hotel with their lips practically fused together. Beelzebub’s mouth on Gabriel’s dick. Discovering Beelzebub’s effort consists of several tentacles and three holes, all of which Gabriel fucked or got fucked by.

The paperwork on this is going to be a nightmare.

“I can see why Crowley is all hell-bent on getting up on the angel,” Beelzebub says. “That was…fantastic.”

It was, even if Gabriel isn’t ready to admit it out loud. “Don’t you mean you see what Aziraphale wants with a demon?”

Beelzebub frowns, a calculating look lighting zir eyes. “I gave my potions to Aziraphale to make him fall in love with Crowley because Crowley’s been in love with him since practically forever. And then I laced your cake because I couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t working.”

“I gave mine to Crowley because Aziraphale fell in love in the garden. I put some potion in your coffee at the cafe.”

“You being devious is kind of sexy.”

All the pieces fall into place. “Oh fuck,” Gabriel breathes. “Nothing changed because they were already in love.”

“Pity. I still have another dose left,” Beelzebub says, picking up zir vial and shaking it enough for the liquid to slosh around. “It would be such a shame to waste it.”

“Agreed,” Gabriel says. He leans over and yanks his trousers off the floor so he can get his bottle out of the pocket as quickly as possible.

“Cheers,” they both say, clinking the vials together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed it. Comments and kudos are better than a pile of puppies.


End file.
